


You May Be Right

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Reisa's Family [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Canon-Typical Violence, Declarations Of Love, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2355137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s why he could submit so freely to Clint’s control, let Clint see this part of himself. Doubt, fear, worry … Agent Coulson was always in charge, but Phil made mistakes. </p><p>“Can you … I want …” He tried to drag the words out, to make his mouth give form to what he needed. “There should be consequences. Everyone says it’s alright, you did the right thing, don’t blame yourself. But people are dead. Good agents who trust me, followed my orders. I need to pay for that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You May Be Right

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote "Let It Go," I intended it to be a one shot Dom!Clint and Sub!Phil. Then I dreamed a little scene and from that one image came this story as if it had a life of its own. It just kept growing and growing. I'm presenting it as it is since my muse is happy even if I wonder what I've done. As I said in the first story, I don't claim to be an expert on the BDSM lifestyle; I'm more interested in exploring the dynamics of submission and dominance from a psychological perspective. 
> 
> You don't need to read the first story to understand this one. Might be fun to, though. :)

Phil got as far as the newel post of the bannister before he ground to a halt. His feet disappeared in the fog that hung over his mind, the power of locomotion gone. In his head, voice shouted and shots rang out; like a tape on a loop, he kept replaying the last twelve hours.

_“Where did you get those pants?” Phil eyed the form hugging leather that encased Clint’s thighs and ass. Broken in and smooth as butter, Phil’s fingers itched to touch the hollow behind Clint’s knee and run up the seam to the back pocket that needed a hand tucked inside._

_“Yeah, Barton, what’s up with that outfit? You forget to tell us you’re some sort of rock star or something?” Tim Moran, the Homeland Security coordinator, was one of those guys who had to get the last word in no matter whether he knew anything about the conversation or not. Phil had worked with him before; Moran was a good agent so Phil just usually ignored his comments. But having him on the same op with Clint? Going undercover with Clint was hard enough given the fact Phil was sleeping with him now. Add Moran and a mixed team from the alphabet agencies and Phil questioned his sanity for agreeing to this._

_“Didn’t you know? In another life, I was a member of Bon Jovi.” Clint flashed Moran a grin. “Had the big hair and everything.”_

_Moran snorted, not buying it for a second. He took a parting shot as he leaned out of the telephone company van served as surveillance. “Yeah, right, Barton. You rip a mean bass, I’m sure.”_

_Tia Johnson, the F.B.I. agent assigned to the team, had her hair held back with a simple black band, her white shirt tucked into the waistband of her basic khakis. “Thanks again, Clint. I’m sorry about all the trouble.”_

_“The trouble belongs to whoever did the reconnaissance on this op,” Clint assured the tall, willowy woman with dark brown eyes. “In too big of a hurry to do their homework.”_

_“It’s fine, Tia,” Phil assured her. “Operating procedure is clear; no one can make you take the assignment.”_

_“Besides,” Clint said, winking at the younger woman, “I make a damn fine boy toy with daddy issues. And with you as back up, we’ll be fine.”_

_“You are the subbiest of subs, Barton,” Mark Perez tossed out as he fit his almost invisible earpiece and checked its status. “And I’ll have eyes on all of you the whole time, so don’t squick me out, okay? I mean, yeah, Coulson here is mighty fine, and I wouldn’t mind a piece of that, but you?” Perez grinned and Clint punched him in the arm, sharing the joke._

_“Equipment check in five,” Phil said, ignoring the banter. “Braden? You in position?”_

_“Aye, aye, Captain!” Missy Braden, one of SHIELD’s up and coming tech specialists, answered from her location in the crawl space underneath the stage of the theater. “This POS system is my little bitch now. They’ll see and hear what I want them to.”_

_“You’re rubbing off on her Clint,” Phil groused, straightening his lapels and tucking the small camera into the fold of his handkerchief. “We’re going in ten, people.”_

_“Yes, sir,” Clint replied with a mock salute. “You’re in charge, Phil.”_

“Phil.” Clint’s voice penetrated the exhausted haze and broke into Phil’s thoughts. “Stay with me for a few more minutes. Then I promise I’ll take care of you.”

The strength of the tone sank into Phil’s cold skin, like little hooks that pulled him back from the dark that was dragging him down. The room came back into focus; Phil managed to turn his head. Familiar face he knew so well, blue-grey eyes tired, crinkles deeper, dark shadows underneath -- the man he trusted above all else.

He nodded, a dip of his chin. Warm hand slipped under his elbow and he gave his body over to be led, step by step. Instinct made him lift his foot, Clint kept him balanced, and he climbed the stairs to the second level as the past reverberated in his skull.

_Phil picked a loveseat covered in bright blue suede, halfway down the tiered room, noting the exits and all the possible attack positions. All they had to do was sit and wait for the contact to show. A quick exchange and they’d have more intel on A.I.M. than they’d ever had before._

_“Would you like a drink?” Perez said in his role as a waiter. Johnson was in her place across the street, working a shift at Starbucks with a perfect view of the stage door comings and goings._

_“Scotch and water for me, a longneck for my friend.” Playing dominant was old hat by now, but Phil found it odd, like a jacket that was a little too snug. Having Clint sprawled on the floor at his feet was disconcerting; Phil had gotten used to looking up at Clint, not seeing the top of Clint’s head resting on his knee. But if it meant closing the book on some of A.I.M.’s nastier projects, they’d pull it off. They always did._

_The lights went down, the curtain opened, and Phil was doubly glad Clint had stepped in for Tia. The girl on stage, her long black hair in pigtails with pink bows, looked no older than fourteen, even if Phil knew her name and that she was twenty three. Crisp white shirt unbuttoned, tied just beneath her overflowing breasts,and plaid pleated skirt, short enough curve of her ass visible. Her bright pink leather collar brushed along her throat, chain held by an older man behind a desk. Damn C.I.A. intel; no one should have sent a rape survivor into this environment._

_No pretense, no awkward acting, the man just bent her over his knee and grabbed a paddle. Breathy cries fell from her mouth as she writhed, breasts popping free for everyone to see. This, Phil didn’t understand; he’d never thought of himself as a voyeur until he been introduced to Reisa’s place. Watching two people perform for him wasn’t stimulating at all; being part of two partners sharing their pleasure with friends was a very different thing. It was obvious the daddy kink scenario below was fake; Phil had seen the real thing in the playroom._

_“Know how to tell those boobs aren’t real?” Clint asked. He’d wrapped himself around Phil’s leg, a hand curled against his ankle, two fingers drawing little circles in Phil’s skin just above the edge of his sock. “See how they stay perfectly round? Gravity, man. Doesn’t work that way.”_

_A voice chuckled behind them; the woman who sat down next to Phil looked more like his fifth grade teacher than a criminal mastermind. Her polyester pantsuit was navy blue, the matching floral shirt trimmed with little yellow diamond shapes. A plus sized woman, she daintily crossed her legs and brushed at her greying curls that were hair sprayed into place._

_“Clever boy you have there.” She wrinkled her nose as she glanced at the stage. “Why such displays hold any interest, I can’t say. Power fantasies are for the bullies of the world. We know the truth; it’s about trust and letting go.”_

_“Not my poison of choice,” Phil answered, the signal phrase. “Wrong equipment for one thing, and I like my partners able to carry on intelligent conversation.”_

_“So true, so true!” She answered with a laugh. “The intelligence part. Nothing wrong with a little age regression for play, but every day? No thank you.”_

_Something was off. Clint tapped his fingers on Phil’s leg: s--t--a--l--l--i--n--g. Yes, indeed. For a contact who was so worried that they demanded a meet in public at a venue of their own choosing, the woman seemed far too relaxed and willing to discuss her BDSM philosophy._

_“Such a lovely sub you have,” the woman continued, reaching and hand over and tousling Clint’s hair. “Fortunately, I’m fond of all types of equipment. Is he to be shared?”_

_Clint tensed against Phil’s leg but kept his head down. A strange little growl came from the back of Phil’s throat before he could stop it. “No. He’s mine. That’s non-negotiable.”_

_“Ah, that’s too bad.” She moued her lips and pouted. “And here I didn’t know that you two were really a couple. No one is that good of an actor, Agent Coulson. Such a delight to learn that Hawkeye is a submissive. It will make the interrogation that much easier.”_

“Out of the suit, Phil. Take everything off but your underwear.”

The words fell across the memories, and Phil was back in his body. A tremor ran down his arm, his fingers taking far too long to twitch in response. Like an older computer in sleep mode, his brain sluggishly started up again, his surroundings taking a long time to register. Clint’s townhouse. Monitor lights on green, security system secured. Warm palm against his cheek, Phil turned his head into Clint’s hand. He dragged a breath all the way to his toes and back out before he could make his hands respond and slip his jacket off his shoulders. Undressing was mechanical; he didn’t need to think, just let perform the familiar task. He closed his eyes and didn’t look at the sprinkle of dark red dots on his poplin shirt, the smear of fluids around the cuffs. Each piece made him feel lighter, drifting away from the menacing darkness and towards the null of subspace. The feather light touches of Clint’s fingers grounded him, kept him in his own skin. Standing behind Phil as he sat down, Clint was a solid wall to lean against once Phil’s bare feet were flat on the heated wood floor. Emptying his lungs of air, Phil sighed and wished he could wipe away the last twenty four hours the same way he could strip away his clothes.

“I can’t.” The words weren’t a conscious act; they bubbled up from deep inside of him. A humiliating admission of failure. Phil Coulson never failed. He could take a man down with a pack of donuts and a bag of flour. He took care of his team and never, ever left a man behind. “I didn’t …”

“Stop that right now.” Clint’s voice cut off the trickle of words that threatened to become a flood. “You trust me, Phil. I promised I’d never lie to you. And here’s the Goddamn truth.” Clint came around the chaise lounge and crouched between Phil’s legs, his hand on Phil’s thighs. “You did everything you could. No one, and I mean no one, Phil, not even Steve Rogers, could have done better than you did. Sometimes things just get fucked up. People are alive because of what you did last night. Myself included.”

“I should have known. Checked the intel again. I had doubts when you stepped in.” In his mind, it was all laid bare, every bad decision, every move analyzed over and over for flaws.

“There’s always more we could do. You’re the one who taught me that second guessing is worthless.” Clint sounded so sure, so confident; Phil wanted to believe him, wanted to give the guilt and the remorse away. But he couldn’t.

_Perez was on his knees on the stage, hands cuffed, gun barrel resting on the back of his neck. Beside him, Moran hung his bloody face down, each cough bring more dribbles of red. He’d resisted and they’d beaten him, dragging him from the van and into the theatre using him to lure Johnson down the alley. She was struggling with her restraints even now; she’d bit one of the A.I.M. agents’ fingers half off. He was glowering at her, itchy trigger on his gun._

_Katherine Dupree, that was what the paperwork called her, held her gun to Clint’s head, one knee on his back, pressing her weight into him to keep him kneeling. Weaponless and without his comm link, Phil was surprised by the efficiency with which Dupree had planned this double cross. Months information dribbled out, real enough to make them believe she truly wanted to change sides. And now she had her prize, an Avenger, trussed up and ready to interrogated._

_“I bet it doesn’t take long to put him down, does it, Phil?” She stroked the gun’s muzzle along Clint’s spine. “And you get off on it. Fury’s one good eye and the man who never misses.”_

_“You won’t get anything from us.” Phil wasn’t sure what she was after, but he knew that Clint wouldn’t give it to her._

_“Please.” She snorted at the sentiment. “Everyone has a breaking point. Even the great Hawkeye and Agent Coulson.”_

_She gave the barest of nods to one of the men on the stage, and he pulled the trigger, the echo of the shot loud in the semi-empty room. Phil didn’t flinch, didn’t look away as Moran slumped to the floor. Damn it, he should have seen this coming. Too easy; Phil was trained to sniff out a trap, but he’d missed the clues._

_“No sign of the other one.” One of her minions stopped a good three feet away; everyone in the club had been A.I.M. agents. From the second they’d walked in, they’d been caught. “Security is back online; she’ can’t have gotten out of the building. As soon as the scanner is up and running, we’ll have her.”_

_“Fucking morons.” Dupree pressed Clint down, bending him almost double. “This is why we can’t win; stupidity runs rampant in the ranks.” She sighed as she whipped out a pair of handcuffs. “I have to do everything myself. Cuff yourself, Phil.”_

_He caught them as they flew at him; enhanced cuffs with biometric locking, Phil clicked them on one wrist and then the other. With a hiss, the light turned green; for a second, he let himself look at Clint’s bowed head, the kiss of the gun against his neck. Clint, who was being awfully quiet, playing at dropping into subspace, ready for his opening. The weight of the cuffs around his wrists tugged at him, reminders of silk ties and warm hands and slipping into that safe heady place with Clint near. He shoved that aside and focused on the cut of the metal against his skin._

_“We have to clear out. Braden will have called in reinforcements by now. Get the car ready. Three men on Coulson and two with me.” From another pocket, she drew out a hypodermic needle and pulled the cap off with her teeth, spitting it to the side. The needle’s tip sank into Clint’s neck at the carotid artery. “Don’t worry, Phil. This will just make our boy more pliable for the trip.”_

_“What about the others?” Minion number one asked. “We can get the van.”_

_“Kill them all. And start the countdown. I need only a moment …” She started to depress the plunger ..._

“Drink this.” Cool water dribbled in his mouth and Phil swallowed. It slid down his throat and soothed the smoky taste that lingered. He gulped more, letting it wash away some of his tension. Strokes of Clint fingers left trails along his skin. “Tell me what you need Phil. I”ll take care of you.”

Trust. It came down to trust. Phil didn’t just know Clint would understand, would have his back, he felt it in the very core of his being. That’s why he could submit so freely to Clint’s control, let Clint see this part of himself. Doubt, fear, worry … Agent Coulson was always in charge, but Phil made mistakes.

“Can you … I want …” He tried to drag the words out, to make his mouth give form to what he needed. “There should be consequences. Everyone says it’s alright, you did the right thing, don’t blame yourself. But people are dead. Good agents who trust me, followed my orders. I need to pay for that.”

“Phil.” Clint’s voice was quiet, and Phil opened his eyes to find Clint staring at him. “After Loki, they said the same things. I had to find a way to balance the scales; I never told anyone, but I volunteered as part of the clean up crews in Manhattan. Worked myself until I fell into bed, slept a few hours then got up and did it all again. For months, I had bruises and scrapes and lungs full of dust. Took a long time, but I think that’s what did it for me, pushed me over the edge into recovery rather than tumbling down the rabbit hole.”

That got Phil’s attention. Clint so rarely talked about that time; they both preferred the sweat it out method, hitting the gym or drowning themselves in paperwork. It would be just like Clint to work himself to exhaustion, welcoming the aches and pains of cleaning away debris that he’d take responsibility for.

“Yes.” That was all Phil had to say. Clint understood. “That’s it.”

“All right. But I want you to listen to me, Phil. You deserve a Goddamn commendation for getting us out of there. That you don’t believe it is the problem. And I’m going to make you see that.”

* * *

  _Clint waited for Phil, the quick tap of fingertips on his thigh that signalled the plan. The gun on his neck, Dupree’s weight on his back -- he let it all go and prepared himself. Tension coiled in his calves and thighs, fingers splayed on the floor seemingly for balance but ready to push up, an equal force upending Dupree’s plans. The gunshot echoed in his head, but he couldn’t react, he could only worry about Phil and the others and getting the hell out of here alive. Shove anything more back into the box that separated work from life, now from later._

_“Kill them all.”_

_Phil exploded into action, a roundhouse of a kick that slammed into Dupree’s arm and knocked the syringe away. Surging up with all the power he could muster, Clint threw her backwards, and the shot from her gun fired upwards into the ceiling instead of into him. He hoped the others on the stage were taking advantage of the distraction but he couldn’t take the time to look their way as three more A.I.M. minions rushed his way._

_He saw Phil swinging his clenched fists still connected by the cuffs like a battering ram right into another of their assailant’s neck. Then his vision expanded, and he reached out with trained senses, anticipating moves, blocking punches, dodging bullets as he took out his opponents until no one stood before him. Perez and Johnson stumbled down the stairs of the stage, Perez with a bullet hole in his shoulder and Johnson with blood running down her face._

_“Braden! Report!” Phil, sitting on top of Dupree to keep her down, tapped his comm. “Enemy neutralized up here. There may be more looking for your position.”_

_“We’ve got a bigger problem, sir,” Braden’s voice came back immediately. “The whole damn place is wired to explode and the timer is running. We’ve got less than five minutes.”_

_Dupree smiled, the blood in her mouth bright red against her white teeth. “Guess you’ll have to lose after all,” she said._

_“Evacuate the premises.” Phil spat out the order; Clint searched the fallen men for keys to the cuffs._

_“Um, Sir?” Braden spoke up again. “I’ve already called in. ETA on back up is one minute.”_

_Damnit, Clint thought. Keeping everyone out of the blast radius was going to be a juggling act. As soon as he tossed the biometric key to Phil, Phil was out of the cuffs and using them on Dupree._

_“Johnson, Perez, get Moran’s body. Watch for snipers, set up a perimeter and meet the calvary. Clint, take out the trash.” Phil yanked Dupree off the floor and pushed her towards Clint. “I’ll make the call.”_

_Clint wasted only one glance at Phil’s face; they knew each other too well to need long declarations. Then he wrestled Dupree towards the door; she dragged her feet and chuckled the whole way._

_“I’ve got eyes on the detonator.” Braden’s voice broke over the line. “3 minutes, 42 seconds left. I think I can …”_

_“Negative, agent. Evacuate,” Phil ordered._

_“Piece of cake, Coulson. This is an old military model; I can have it deactivated in less than two,” Braden replied._

_The humming distracted Clint; the damn woman was singing under her breath. It took him a second to recognize the old 80s tune. “Girls just wanna have fun,” she mouthed the words and winked. Something cold and hard blocked Clint’s throat, a lump of fear he had to swallow down._

_“Fucking hell.” He jerked her around and slammed her into the entryway wall. “How long do we have?”_

_“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Agent Barton.” Her face hardened, eyes going cold. “But if you agree to be mine, maybe I can remember how to deactivate the timer.”_

_Seconds, minutes, Clint didn’t know. Braden, downstairs, Phil behind him, the others ready to run in the doors. The knot loosened, and Clint drew himself up, towering over the woman as he wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed lightly._

_“How long do we have?” The command bled through his voice, every ounce of strength of will channeled against Dupree. Her eyes widened a fraction, and she swallowed convulsively._

_“Oh.” A gasp of breath as much as a word. “Oh my. I had it all wrong, didn’t I?”_

_“How. Long.” He tightened his hold, enough to choke off some of her air intake._

_She raised her cuffed hands and showed him her watch. The digital readout read 42 and was counting down. “So, does this mean that Coulson is … oh … that’s a damn shame. I’d have enjoyed you both.” With a click, she bit down on one of her back teeth and a spray of white foam burst from her mouth; Clint jumped back, and she fell like a sack of potatoes, body jerking as the poison took effect._

_“Phil! Timer’s a decoy. We’ve got 39 seconds.” Clint frantically thumbed his comms to broadcast on all channels. “38 seconds. Repeat. 38 seconds to detonation. Missy, get out of there. Phil, run!”_

The smooth leather handle was heavy against his palm. Clint weighed first one then the other, thinking about heft and strike. His favorite was the sleek worn bullwhip he’d bought on a mission to Venezuela; hand made, lovingly maintained, it needed an expert hand and was just the right balance between hurt and pain. Phil loved the feel of its kiss along his skin.

Clenching his hand around it, Clint’s eyes were drawn to where Phil waited, knees on the soft mat they’d picked out together, head bowed, deep breaths slowing his heart rate as he waited. They’d done this before, any number of times, but Clint’s stomach hadn’t been churning with worry, his head filled with crumbling brick and ash. With body bags, bloody wounds on the survivors, and just how close he’d come to losing Phil.

Normally, the whip made him feel centered. Acting, not reacting. Wrestling his own demons aside to focus on Phil’s needs. But not now. He was sweating, skin crawling under his t-shirt, the shouts of the rescue team as they poured in the door of that theatre echoing in his head. HIs feet were as unsteady in his own home as they were when the floor rocked and buckled seconds before the bomb blew.

“I can’t.” He dropped the whip back in the drawer and sank down beside Phil. “I’m sorry. I’m … compromised. I can’t.”

Phil’s hands were on his face in an instance, drawing Clint’s eyes up. “Clint. It’s okay. You and Moran were friends. You trained Missy. I’m sorry, Clint.”

Clinging to Phil, Clint let the tight reign on his emotions go, both of them shaking. Meaningless murmurs were exchanged as they simply held on to each other.

“I should have made Dupree talk sooner.” Clint drew back. “I should have seen the double cross.”

A hollow laugh, and Phil shook his head. “If I can’t blame myself, neither can you. I shouldn’t have let you be the sub. If you’d been the lead, you’d have worked it out faster.”

“Oh, God, are we going to fight about this?” Clint said. “We both need to get our heads on straight. I’m sorry I can’t do it …”

A thought struck him. Reisa always said he had to have his head in the right place before a scene. She’d drilled that lesson into him time and time again after he’d come to her too messed up to do more than bleed on her expensive carpet.

“I think I know the answer.” Clint got his cellphone from where he’d laid it on a table. “Let me make a call.”

_“PHIL!” Clint broke free from the agents holding him back and ran for the shattered glass doors. Smoke billowed forth, dust and grime settling all along the sidewalk, covering the cars that lined the street. Chunks of masonry littered the grounds, one big piece in the middle of an Audi’s windshield, the car crumpled around it._

_His gloves protected his hands as he yanked the door off its hinges, what glass was left splintering and flying free. A mouthful of smoke, and Clint coughed, his eyes watering just two steps inside. It looked like a war zone, walls at odd angles, chairs thrown about, ceiling collapsed._

_“You can’t go in there.” Johnson grabbed Clint’s arm. “The whole damn building’s going to come down any second.”_

_“Phil was right behind me. He’s got to be here.” Clint knew his voice was giving everything away, but he didn’t care. Phil needed him. He needed Phil._

_She stared with those big brown eyes and then she nodded. “Did he make it out of the theatre?”_

_“Yeah, I saw him come through the double doors right over there.” Clint stepped around what was left of Dupree, her legs sticking out from behind a concrete beam._

_A pile of stones shifted. A hand appeared followed by a suit clad arm. Clint was there in a flash, helping Phil crawl out from under the heavy wooden door that had fallen at an odd angle, protecting him from the worst of the blast._

_“I’ve got you,” Clint said. “You’re going to be fine, Phil.”_

_Phil smiled up at him. “If you say so,” he agreed._

Her heels clicked on the wood floor as she let herself in the room, tucking the door shut behind her. Clint had seen the security panel light up when she’d entered her code, one of only four people who knew the access. She wore slim woolen black pants, a grey silk blouse, and a Hermes scarf, her hair pulled back loosely at the the nap of her neck.

“Gentlemen,” Reisa greeted them.

Clint shifted his arms around Phil, hugging him tighter. They were seated on the chaise, Phil bundled up in a throw, leaning against Clint’s chest. “Remember that time in Bermuda?” He asked her.

She didn’t need any more explanation. Eying them both, she asked, “Phillip?”

“I understand.” Phil lifted his head and whatever Reisa saw in his eyes satisfied her.

“Good. Clint is correct. Emotionally compromised is not the right frame of mind.” She closed the distance and sat on the end of the chaise. “Safe word?”

“Poughkeepsie,” Phil said. That earned a smile from Reisa.

“Alright.” She stroked Phil’s hand. “Clint, darling, be a dear and undress for me. You can leave your briefs on, assuming you’re wearing any.”

“Me?” Clint cocked his head. This wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Do as you’re told, Clint.” Reisa’s voice brooked no argument. Freeing himself, he stood up and stripped down  to his underwear, tossing his clothes in a pile in the corner of the room. “Now, step over to the cross. Hands up and feet out. You know the drill.”

“I don’t understand,” Phil interjected, watching a Clint stepped over to the simple wooden beams. Another one of their joint purchases, the saltire cross was hand made by an artist up in Manchester, New Hampshire. Simple, elegant, it was polished to a high sheen that matched the other furniture in the room.

“Come, dear, I’ll show you.” She pulled Phil up, gently taking the blanket from around his shoulders, letting it pool on the floor.

His back against the smooth wood, Clint realized what Reisa was doing when she urged Phil face forward. Phil’s chest brushed along Clint’s, his hands raised and clasped Clint’s, his feet side by side with Clint’s. Phil tucked his head into the nook of Clint’s neck, exhaled, and Clint felt the tension leave Phil’s shoulders as he relaxed into the embrace. As odd as it was, arms and legs splayed out, the amount of skin to skin contact soothed Phil instantly. As Reisa buckled the flannel lined cuffs -- first the left then the right hand then the left and the right foot -- Phil sagged into Clint, using Clint’s strength as his own. Every shift, every tremor of Phil’s body was telegraphed through Clint’s skin. He could slip into Phil this way, as if the thin membrane between them disappeared, give Phil everything he needed.

“I’ve got you,” Clint whispered.

“Clint,” Phil murmured against his neck. “I failed.”

“No, Phil. The intel failed. You handled the situation.” Clint squeezed Phil’s hands. How easy it was to be certain when it was about someone else.

“How many?” Reisa asked. She’d brought her own whip, a long three tailed made with the finest leather, oiled and smooth. With a flick of her wrist, the ends cracked in the quiet; Phil shivered in anticipation, and Clint drew in a quick breath.

“Ten,” Clint answered. Phil bit off a moan and buried his nose further into Clint’s hairline.

Clint was good with a whip. Part of his gift of accuracy, Clint took to the length of leather like the showman he used to be. When he played at Reisa’s, everyone gathered to watch him knock targets off of Phil’s hands, his knees, even from his mouth. Phil loved it, the precision and the danger, the trust and the release. And when they were alone, Clint could take his time, stroke the braided cord across Phil’s skin, a lover’s touch wrapped in a punishing blow.

But Reisa was another level of expertise. Subtle and silent, she didn’t talk, didn’t make a show of her talent. She could lay a series of perfectly spaced red lines, criss cross, vertical, even horizontal, and never break the skin. With very little warning, her blows fell at just the right moment, that second between inhale and exhale, when they would push the breath from your lungs and leave you shaking with need for another. Clint knew from experience the sublime burn of Reisa’s whip; now he was about to learn what it felt like for a true sub like Phil.

Whipping through the air, the leather made a slight sound as it approached Phil’s back. Phil lifted his head, and Clint saw his pupils dilate as he drew in a breath. Clint felt the tension in Phil’s muscles -- fingers clenched, forearms braced to keep him from putting his full weight on Clint’s body -- in anticipation of the fall.  When it came, the heavy weight smacking along Phil’s skin pressed him further into Clint; from shoulder to thigh, the energy of the blow rolled through them both. Phil gave a long exhale as the whip scored his back, warm wet breath tickling Clint’s ear.

It was exquisite. Every shudder, the smallest tremor of nerves firing -- all of Phil’s reactions translated over into Clint. No distance between them, Clint didn’t just see Phil start to slip out of his skin, he was drawn along with him into the emotional turmoil they both were feeling. A second strike, the ends of the tails tickling Clint’s ribs before they withdrew, and Clint groaned along with Phil.

“Phil.” Clint whispered. “Let go and take me with you.”

Another crack and Phil’s head sagged onto Clint’s shoulder as he gave up, letting his muscles relax. Clint was strong enough for both of them; he could take Phil’s pain and hold him up as long as needed. Sweat slicked Phil’s chest, and he trembled in the warm room, mouth moving along Clint’s collar bone, murmuring words into the curve.

“I should have … I didn’t … God, Clint … so many dead … so many lost …”

Phil cried out with the next stripe, the sound forced out by the sting of the whip. Harder now, Reisa was working up to Phil’s limit, giving no ground to his doubts. The sound vibrated in the aching hole in Clint’s chest where he buried his own regrets, shaking them until they came loose. His lips parted and the words poured out.

“Not your fault … never your fault … so many saved, Phil … how many have you saved …”

The lick of the whip fell again and again, three more blows in quick succession, no time to recover, to rebuild defenses. They wracked Phil’s body like convulsions, opening him up so Clint could sink inside … or it was Clint opening up, pulling Phil deep inside. Protecting him, showing him how much he was loved … or it was Phil, giving all to Clint, trust turned to unconditional acceptance. Clint was no longer sure where he stopped and Phil began.

The eighth blow rocked them both; they sagged together, held up only by the cuffs and inclined slope of the wood. And, suddenly Phil fought the fall, pushing back against the edge. He bucked and their bodies slid, sweaty skin, rough hair, tight nipples, bruised muscles, hard cocks creating friction through fabric. Phil’s head slammed into Clint’s jaw as he struggled, and Clint bit his lip, blood trickling from the corner, smearing along Phil’s cheek. Muscles strained as Phil tried to get lose; Clint held on tight and kissed a line along Phil’s neck leaving a trail of red. Finally Phil collapsed, body boneless.

“I’m not that man,” Phil confessed. “You think, everyone thinks I never fail, that it’s never my fault. If I’m not him, then who am I?”

“You’re Phil. Funny, irreverent, smart ass, can’t feed yourself without dropping it on you Phil.” The truth poured out of Clint, shaking him to his core. “Phil who can’t finish a Sudoku. Phil who leaves the toilet seat up and blames it on me. Phil who can take care of himself but who loves to be taken care of. Phil who doesn’t need anyone but needs me.”

Phil trembled at each declaration until Clint was done then murmured, “Two more. I need two more. I’m not there yet.”

The next to last strike drove the air from Clint’s chest as if it fell. He buried his nose in Phil’s hair and breathed through the panic that surged up his throat, a clawed hand tightening its grip into his flesh. Primal and raw, Clint couldn’t stop the confession from ripping its way out.

“I could have lost you.” Clint’s words carried no further than Phil’s ear. “I could have been alone again.” Tears stained his cheeks, and his voice cracked. “I can’t live without you, Phil. If I don’t have you, then who am I?”

The tenth blow licked up Phil’s back, perfectly placed to drive him forward. Unclenching his hands, doubts and fears sloughed off and Clint felt a hundred times lighter. Phil weighed nothing and, as Reisa unbuckled the cuffs on his wrists, Clint scooped him up, cradling him close. Carrying Phil to end of the chaise, Clint eased him down to the floor, kicking the soft pad under his knees. He laid Phil’s chest on the soft cushion and tucked a pillow under his head. Red welts littered Phil’s back, but the only blood was from Clint’s lip. Wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand, dashing away the tracks of his tears, Clint ruffled Phil’s hair, pausing long enough to stroke his thumb down the side of Phil’s face before he opened another drawer and took out a jar of soothing cream, a towel, and some other supplies.

“Mel sent some dinner for you both; it’s downstairs in the kitchen. I’ll let myself out.” Erisa's touch was brief and light. “Do you believe it now?”

“Yes,” he said, never taking his eyes off of Phil. “You were right. You’re always right.”

“Take care of each other,” she said, coiling her whip back into her back. “I’ll check in tomorrow.” She shut the door behind her as she left.

Dropping to his knees, he started working the balm into the red lines, starting at Phil’s shoulders and moving slowly downwards. At first, Phil didn’t respond at all, so deep into subspace that the touch didn’t register. But as Clint continued to smooth the cool cream into Phil’s skin, he started to react, little grunts first followed by moans and gasps. Running his thumb along one hot welt, Clint enjoyed the way Phil arched back into the pressure. His fingers tingling from the menthol additive Tony had cooked up for his own aches and pains, Clint knew from experience that the balm made Phil’s pain recede just enough but not entirely.

Once he’d swathed the ten lines in the medicated rub, Clint switched to Phil’s favorite rosemary scented oil, a special blend that was safe for after care. He didn’t always use it, but Phil was warming up so easily, and Clint suddenly realized just how achingly hard he was, how much his cock has been dripping the whole time. And Phil was slowly rolling his hips against the edge of the chaise searching for friction for his own ache.

“Please, sir.” God, Phil begged so prettily when he finally submitted. Clint couldn’t deny him anything, not when Phil was so pliant under his hands. If Clint was honest, he could never say no to Phil.

He skimmed his thumbs under the band of Phil’s boxers and dropped a line of kisses on the untouched skin there. He tugged them down, tapping once on Phil’s thigh as a signal to lift one knee then the other.  Pouring more oil in his palms, he started on the souls of Phil’s feet, kneading the spots most likely to be aching, first the left before moving on to the right. Up each calf, hitting hard the place Phil had been shot years ago that seized up sometimes. Phil groaned when Clint started in on his thighs, moving in closer, hands slowing circling up to the curve of Phil’s ass.

Catching the edge of the towel, Clint wiped his hands clean before he popped open the silky lube, covering his fingers so he could slide along the crease between Phil’s cheeks. He circled the tight muscle with one hand, teasingly light because he enjoyed the way Phil shivered at the touch. Slid up and dragged along one of the welts with the other, timing Phil’s hiss to slip a finger inside as he exhaled through the sting.

“Good,” Phil moaned.

“That’s it, baby,” Clint murmured. Working Phil open nice and slow was one of Clint’s favorite fantasies, making Phil wait until Clint was ready. Building Phil up with long slow strokes of fingers both inside and out, pain along with the pleasure. Watching Phil clench his hands in the pillow, squeeze his eyes shut and ride it out, content to let Clint set the pace, trusting Clint to not leave him hanging. Clint craved this; as much as he liked the thrum of the whip and the reverberation of the blow in his hand -- so much like the twang of a bowstring -- he loved this part afterwards where Phil had lost all resistance and just let himself be in the moment.

Phil choked off a sound of protest when Clint finally withdrew his three fingers. Wiping them on the towel, he sat back and shimmied out of his briefs and absently stroked himself as he gathered up what he needed. Cool gel warmed as he added it to his palm, excitement building  in his gut. They’d stopped using condoms when they decided this was an exclusive thing, both knowing they were clean, and yet Clint’s cock still acted like every time was the first to feel the warm tight heat of Phil around him. Spreading Phil’s legs and pushing ever so gently in, the clench was overwhelming. So relaxed, Phil’s muscles pulled Clint in, smooth and easy. When he could, Clint liked to start this way, make Phil feel every inch of the breach. He made the best noises as Clint gradually filled him then receded back out, little breathy whines so needy and honest. Often, Clint would snap on the leather cock ring to prolong the ecstasy and see how far Phil could go before he broke. Those orgasms were the best, Phil clamping tight around him in spasms as he came first.

Tonight, Phil was being a good boy, hands to himself, Clint in the lead. Phil could be a mouthy bottom when he wanted to, and Clint loved that too, but sometimes Phil wanted to be used however Clint decided. The beauty of their relationship was that they could switch things up as they needed; when Clint needed to be fucked Phil had no problem being ordered to do so, especially if Clint rode him hard after tying him up. Now, Clint was the one doing the riding and the easy gait he started with changed as he read Phil’s signals. Clint was on his knees and holding Phil’s hips steady; Phil started to push back, to meet his thrusts with little circles of his hips, bracing himself with his hands.

So Clint leaned over and scooped an arm under Phil, lifting Phil up and pulling him against Clint’s chest. Sweaty skin rub against the line of welts, and Phil cried out at the sensation as Clint snapped his hips harder, thrusting up at a different angle, one he knew would hit the right spot. Clint managed to spread the towel out on the chaise before he went back to fucking Phil in earnest, using his thighs to lift them both up and back. His nipples hardened and throbbed as they dragged across Phil’s back with each plunge, Phil’s body bouncing forward and back, held up by Clint’s muscular arm.

“Please, sir.” Phil’s words were short and broken.

“Ask, Phil.” Clint gave him permission.

“I want … your come … inside me … ah, Clint, please … before I …”

“Whatever you need.”

It didn’t take long; Clint pounded into Phil and chased that edge down in a matter of a handful of thrusts, pulsing into Phil, the slick mess of his come filling Phil and making the last shuddering movements so good. Tensing up, Phil moaned, his cock jerking in its need for release. The endorphins flooded through Clint, a high better than any drugs or the finest whiskey. He could slump over right now and sleep, but Phil still needed to be taken care of. Slipping his free hand around Phil’s hip, he started to curl his fingers around Phil’s cock.

“Just … can you ask me?” Phil said.

“Ah, Phil. Can you? With my cock in your ass and filled with my come? Can you do it for me on command?” Clint sucked in the bottom of Phil’s ear, his voice little more than a whisper.

“I think … yes, yes. I want to.”

“Then come for me, Phil. Be mine.”

Phil’s cry was a mix of Clint’s name, a long moan, and a deep grunt. He spasmed around Clint as he came, ropey strands spilling out onto the towel. Through it all, Clint held him tight, whispering praises in his ear, keeping Phil upright as he completely relaxed. Then Clint took the towel away and eased Phil down on the chaise; his softening cock slipped out and white liquid slid down Phil’s thighs. Within reach was the warmer, so Clint pulled out a few of the wet squares to clean away the sticky gel and mess.

“I’m going to put another round of balm on,” he told Phil. “We’ll do another after we eat for good measure. That seems to work the best to stave off the stiffness.”

“Food,” Phil drew the word out, his eyes only halfway cracked. “You wear me out, Barton; this is hard on the knees.”

“Yeah, I’ll be the one in the wheelchair long before you. Parkour, my ass.” Clint dropped a kiss at the base of Phil’s spine. “Let’s get you off the floor and I’ll go see what Mel sent us. She knows you love spicy.”

They’d bought the chaise together for just this purpose; long enough to stretch out and room enough for both of them to comfortably snuggle up. Clint had added the rings for the cuffs on the curved wooden legs and the base. Straddling it, Phil could sit with his elbows on the curved back without putting any weight on the welts. Clint wrapped the throw around Phil’s legs more for touch than warmth and dug a bottle of water out of the fridge. Phil’s eyes were already drifting closed, his face cradled on his hands. Comfortable in his underwear now, Clint made the windows in the kitchen opaque at the terminal by the door.

“What was Reisa right about?” Phil asked, rousing himself to look over at Clint.

“How madly I’m in love with you,” Clint smiled. There were no barriers between them right now, and he didn’t remember why he’d ever worried about admitting it.

“Well, damn.I thought I’d have to say it first. Never bet against that woman.” Phil’s eyes crinkled.  “Good thing I’m in love with you then. Works out well for both of us.”

“Phil.” He faltered, unsure of what to say. Everything he needed say had already been given voice.

“Feed me, Barton,” Phil said, closing his eyes again.

“As you wish,” Clint replied, leaving the door open so Phil could call out if he needed him.

 


End file.
